


Will Graham Gets Trolled

by hannibalsclown



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Sonic X, Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, I'm going straight to hell for this, M/M, Other, and also i'm still figuring out where i want this to go, i'm being relatively sparing in the tags bc i don't want to spoil anything, please forgive me for this, the canon is in a weird place just try to keep up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalsclown/pseuds/hannibalsclown
Summary: Will Graham was a man on the verge. His endless struggle to get by, balancing both FBI profiling and dissociative episodes with his supposedly unidentifiable mental illness, was only amplified when he began to see things that - even by his usual hallucinatory standards - could not possibly be real. The events that followed involving a certain blue blur would change Will's life in ways that even he could never have imagined.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter & Sonic the Hedgehog, Hannibal Lecter/Sonic the Hedgehog, Sonic the Hedgehog & Hannibal Lecter, Sonic the Hedgehog/Hannibal Lecter, Sonnibal, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Will Graham Gets Trolled

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive me for this.

Will Graham was not a naturally jealous man. Everything he could possibly need in life, he knew exactly where to find it: behind the doors of his quaint, frequent-source-of-suspicion homestead in the outback of Wolf Trap, Virginia. Most of his needs could be satisfied by his own design. He sourced a significant portion of his food supply on his own accord; his dogs provided adequate enough company and comfort. He appreciated the solitude, the brief respite of peace and quiet in a life overflowing with noise, even if Dr Lecter was right in saying that it was likely a benefiting factor in his chronic delusional episodes. Too much of a good thing, he hypothesized.

Will Graham could get by on his own. He didn't need anyone crowding up his home more than his ever-growing dog population was. He didn't need anyone invading his space, telling him how to live his life. What good were others, when all they do is take harsh stances against you before they bother to know you, to see you?

To be seen. To be known. To be loved. Sure, it was a great concept on paper. The idea of love had bounced around in Will's mind for years, but even now, well into his thirties, he had never chanced upon an individual that could deal with his neuroses, or that would even want to. Did that include Molly? Yes, it did. She did not see him. She made that clear when she broke off their engagement, which he had no trouble moving on from. Will Graham had vowed to himself that he would never go out of his way to seek ‘love’ out anymore, not after Molly; if someone truly special presented themselves to him, perhaps he would consider opening up his diving bell for them, but he wouldn’t go hunting for comfort. Although it was a tad distasteful of him, he was well aware, to expect someone to find him, to love him as he was without any significant change to his identity. That’s what you’re in therapy for, he reassured himself. You’re working on it, you’re not beyond saving.

Although it would come naturally to such a life that a friend or two would display a supposed 'concern' at his behaviour, his conspicuous trauma (‘Will, I’m recommending you to Dr Lecter’s psychiatry office’), his largely fish-based diet – the latter of which was a train of thought that Will could never quite understand. Thousands of people live pescatarian lifestyles, why was he so different? Your diet needs to be varied, Will! You can't live on fish and cheap coffee! You'll get scurvy! Of course, their concern only ran so far. It usually ended at his doorstep, where they wouldn't bother reaching out any more than absolutely necessary. Throw him out into the stream and refuse to reel him in. Claim you never threw him at all.

Never would he blame them when they were slightly suspicious of his motivations. A man lives alone for years in the middle of nowhere, has a history of mental illness, his only real connection to the world being a law enforcement-aligned career. Hell, many would argue that his main hobby involved the torture of animals. All he had to do was commit arson and wet the bed, and he would've completed the serial killer triptych.

"Will," a smooth voice called from afar. The rugged profiler's head snapped up at the intrusion. How long had he been sitting here? It was dark outside, but it was always dark out by the end of the day at this time of year. The lecture hall was empty, but that was to be expected. God forbid he experience lost time during the middle of a class.

What's the last thing you remember, Will? Not an easy question to answer, Dr Lecter. Tracking through his memories was hard enough when he wasn't losing chunks of time every other day. The students leaving the hall, going to grab a coffee from the machine, staring blankly at the wall while the coffee drained from the nozzle, passing Beverley on the way back - now there's a clue. Beverley. She remained sequestered in the lab for a significant portion of her day, until her breaks at 12 and 4. Will wouldn't go for a coffee at 12 - he had a class starting then, he didn't have time for an unpleasant social experience like a brief nod at Beverly. He must've gone for his coffee at 4. It was still on his desk, probably room temperature by now, if there was anything left in it.

"Will!"

He'd zoned out already, as was typical of him these days. She didn't seem too bothered by his general confusion, but then again, anyone who knew him was accustomed to his dissociative behaviours. 

"Alana," he responded half-heartedly, internally weighing the pros and cons of coming up with some transparent excuse to dismiss himself from the discussion then and there. "What time is it?"

"Almost 7. I thought you would've been on your way to Dr Lecter's by now, what are you still doing here? It's almost an hour’s drive to Baltimore."

"I can still make it. I'll just break a couple speeding laws on the way," Will shrugged nonchalantly. He wasn’t sure if it was his exhaustion or his general attitude towards life that was taking his hand and leading him to envision driving as fast as possible on a slick highway.

"Will, it's been coming down out there all day. Call Lecter and tell him you'll be late, or that you need to reschedule. He'll understand." Will wasn’t up for discussing whether or not he wanted to drive safely anymore, not with Alana Bloom.

“I’ll get out of your way,” he spoke, hoping that the pre-existing notion that he was late for an appointment was enough to convince Alana to let him slip under her radar unexamined. For now, at least. She had a rough idea of how the disarray in his mind functioned; or rather, she understood as much as necessary in order to get under his skin. Her analytical gaze drove Will to hysterics. The longer he was away from it, the better.

The leather seats in the waiting room of Dr Lecter’s office never quite sat right with Will. He could never get comfortable on them, like every week Dr Lecter was replacing them with new cushions so that they never had a chance to be broken in. Will often wished he could take one home and break it in himself, but the chances of that happening were slim to none; Dr Lecter had already expressed distaste for Will’s choice of hygiene products on a number of occasions, and it definitely would not fit under his mattress.

Rarely did Will Graham get a chance to eavesdrop on other patients of Dr Lecter's. Rarely did he want to: he had his own problems to deal with, he didn't need anyone else's weighing on his conscience. The weight of the world was bad enough already. But he would've been lying if he claimed he wasn't at least curious. Who wouldn't be? Dr Lecter was a renowned man in his field, praised by the likes of Alana Bloom and Bedelia du Maurier.

"Doc, it's just not realistic. She would never listen to me." A harsh, shrill voice, like a man pretending to be a teenage boy. Not quite falsetto, more like a cartoon voice spoken from the back of the mouth, like a voice you would hear from your television on a Saturday morning. A caricature of male adolescence.

"Because you believe she is not willing to listen to you?"

"I know she ain't gonna listen, Doc. It's hard to describe without knowing her. I've spent my whole life running away from Amy, and she still always manages to catch up. What's the point in being the fastest thing alive if I can't outrun one girl?"

Who, pray tell, was this guy? 'Fastest thing alive' was an obnoxious way to describe oneself, if you asked Will. He didn't need to see this chump's face to smell the hyperbole on his breath. Have confidence in yourself, thought the profiler, but don't be a douche about it. Then again, what would he know about confidence? Will Graham would shrivel up into a raisin before opening up about his painfully obvious lack of confidence. He would throw himself into the blades of a jet engine’s propellers before discussing his self-image in any location other than the secure walls of Dr Lecter’s office.

"I will leave you with something to consider, Mr Hedge. Perhaps it is your internalised interpretation of Ms Rose that you struggle with. Is she truly pursuing you the way you perceive, or are you seeing something in her that does not exist?"

"What, you think I'm projecting or something?"

"I will not tell you what to think, I will only give you something to think about. It seems like our time is up, Mr Hedge. I presume I will be seeing you again next week?"

"Sure thing, Doc."

There are shuffling sounds in the room, not too dissimilar from the sounds of rats crawling through vents. Will was all too familiar with the sounds of animals in walls. Scrabbling around like termites, scratching at the suffocating plaster, crawling around and wriggling in his head like earth worms in freshly rained-upon dirt, sounding like they're in the midst of a primeval tooth and claw fight for territory, gouging out his brain and incising the walls of his skull, leaving nothing more than claw trenches and the infernal sound of scratching at the walls. Will was familiar with the sound of shuffling. He was more than familiar with the sound of scratching.

The door swung open, alerting Will with the sound of the wooden edge hitting Dr Lecter’s palm as he caught it. As discreetly as one could, Will attempted to inconspicuously peer around the psychiatrist and take a look at the specimen that had clouded his thoughts for the past number of minutes.

“No previous patient?”

“They left through the other exit. Come on in, Will.”

The air in the room felt altered. Perhaps it was simply Will’s newfound sense of unease at the peculiarity of Dr Lecter’s previous patient that was causing him to feel so disoriented, but there was a poignant aura of sickening uncanny within the office that Will couldn’t seem to shake. The ghost of the prior patient was breathing heat down his neck. Hannibal Lecter was not a child psychiatrist; as little as Will knew about the experimental art of psychiatry, he was almost certain that dealing with children was a specialised field, like couples or family therapy. He was aware of a younger patient from a time long gone – one Randall Tier – but from what Will had been told, Randall was an extreme case, a exception to the usual rule, and needed the best care available. Will didn’t fancy himself as a particularly judgmental person, and he was well aware that Dr Lecter treated a colourful variety of disorders, but there was something lingering in Will’s mind, something about the way the previous patient spoke and the way Dr Lecter candidly replied that snagged on a hook in Will’s mind, embedding itself in the folds of his forbidden grey matter.

"Your last patient sounded interesting," Will probed, easily ignoring the chair set out for patients and wandering off into the room. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to be inquiring about this, not so soon. He knew he would be better off keeping this pipette of vinegar away from Dr Lecter's bucket of bleach.

"We're not here to discuss my last patient, Will. We are here to discuss you." A simmering flicker of silence filled the air between the men. Dr Lecter crossed his legs. "You were quick to mention my previous patient. Tell me, Will, is there a particular reason you find yourself hesitant to mention up your own state of being, or is it pure coincidence?"

The question jolted through him. Dr Lecter was never afraid to ask the hard hitters, even at the beginning of a session. That was his job, Will supposed. He wouldn't exactly be a great therapist if he didn't.

"I would argue that I'm having an off-day, but it would be more deviant of me to have a nice day."

"It is hard to disagree that you have more bad days than good ones."

"You've been there. You've seen what I've seen, almost as intimately too. How can you be so collected?"

Dr Lecter did not hesitate in his quick, calm retaliation: "I've been a psychiatrist for many years, Will. I know how to handle difficult situations. And when I can't, I practice what I preach. You've met, I believe."

"Ah, yes. Dr du Maurier," Will exasperatedly sighed, his excuse to himself for this behaviour being that he still winded from the rushed journey to the Baltimore office. He gave in to his urge to stretch his muscles, lifting his arms above his head and straining his back, though he was not sure whom he was stretching for,

"You spoke briefly during incarceration, which you have still yet to formally discuss with me. You are quite skilled at avoiding the subject."

"It's not easy to formally discuss, Dr Lecter.” Having your judgment questioned, your reality warped around you for months at a time. A topic that Dr Lecter must’ve been quite familiar with, Will theorised, considering how suddenly his seizures ceased after his released from Dr Lecter’s care. How is a patient to know when they are being manipulated? How is a patient to distinguish whether what they perceive to be manipulation is not simply another unorthodox method of treatment?

"Tell me about your experiences in the State Hospital, Will – as informally as your comfort zone requires. I understand that this is a difficult subject for you."

"I would be lying if I told you I know how to put it into words."

"Then let us find another way for you to express yourself. Self-expression is not limited to words, Will. Your silence is not necessarily an indication of unwillingness, but of a lack of communicative skills. Tell me, Will, would you like to work on this with me?"

It was embarrassing to admit that Will revelled in the way Dr Lecter said his name, so abundantly and lackadaisically. The definitive nature of every word he said, grounding him in reality: the airy quality of the W; the smooth texture of the I; the risqué tonguing of the double-L; the slight twinge of his accent. Every letter of his own monosyllabic name gave Will's imagination something new to chew on. There were moments of sobriety, when he would kick himself for indulging in such whimsical fantasies, for letting go of his sentience long enough to drown himself in those scarce moments of blissful ignorance when he could let go of the leash around his throat, for losing his sense of self to nothing more than a useless assembly line of idealistic, imaginary scenarios.

He had often wondered how Dr Lecter perceived him, as his friend and his psychiatrist. Plenty of prominent faces in field of academic psychology had tried their hand at studying him from afar, attempting to gain permission to reach into the depths of the mind of the FBI’s most prolific profiler and catch a glimpse of how his wretched mind functioned, yet only Dr Lecter (and a brief affair with Frederick Chilton in his beloved Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane) had ever been granted such access. And, for the record, Will was more than happy to keep it that way. The less people knew about him, the better. He didn’t know how he’d react if he saw his face plastered in the front of Tattlecrime again, this time captioned: ‘FBI’s Favourite Psychopath Caught Snooping at Murder Husband’s Psychiatry Office.’ He didn’t need another public exposé broadcasting his mental state to thousands of amateur online sleuths.

Will was fractured. Even Jack knew it. Going to therapy was supposed to alleviate his problems, not give him another to stress over. He didn’t have room in his mind to be worrying about something so menial, so pointlessly contrived. And yet here it was, muddling his thoughts, filling his head and consuming the time he was supposed to spend working on himself with Dr Lecter. That was his allotted time with Dr Lecter, the hour that Dr Lecter had given to him specifically. He wasn’t about to let some shrill brat like his new patient take it from him.

As he wandered out into the night, an hour of his life having been somehow whisked away by the suave sophistication of Dr Lecter’s demeanour, he couldn’t help but wonder what brought him to this point, fixating on bizarre details that would ordinarily have meant nothing to him. The thought that there was something else wrong with him, or that his pre-existing condition may be worsening, brought a whole new level of misery upon his shoulders. He was already struggling to handle himself, now he was seeing a new symptom: one that didn’t seem so bad now, but if the past was anything to learn from, then he was only going to get worse.

Then again, he’d been getting worse his whole life. This was nothing new.

**Author's Note:**

> From my research, there's only one Sonic/Hannibal crossover fanfiction in existence, and it's a 400 word Hannibal x Robotnik smut fic no less. That's simply unacceptable. I'm unclear how long this will be, I'm thinking short story but with the amount of ideas I have, it could easily go beyond that. When judgment day comes and I am forced to answer for my choices, I can only hope god will forgive me for this. Chapter two coming soon.  
> Fun fact: Sonic Blast, Sonic 3D Blast, and Sonic the Hedgehog Blast are three completely different games.


End file.
